enough to cross oceans
by icor
Summary: An average day for two Sky Pirates. [BalthierFran, Nono, Kytes]


**enough to cross oceans**

**---**

**Notes: **Spoilers regarding Velis and Mydia, and references to _Revenant Wings_--although knowledge of that canon isn't necessary.

---

It's six am and Balthier is stretching, one arm over his head, the other hand gripping his elbow. He faces the window as he does it, clenches his jaw to fight off the better part of another yawn, then hops from foot to foot to get the blood pumping. After this, everything falls into place.

It's the getting up that's the hardest part, but early mornings are just one of those things he has to deal with as a working man. (Although, truth be told, he did spend a whole ten minutes tossing and turning in bed this morn, debating whether or not to get any work done; idly playing with Fran's hair in the vague hope she might 'accidentally' wake up and provide him with some company.)

Keeping with routine, Balthier walks through the ship bare-footed, and the metal flooring only serves to make him walk faster, cooled beneath his toes. By the time he gets back to his room ten minutes have passed, and he can't remember what on Ivalice possessed him to chase more sleep. There's a room off his one, built in front of the folding wing, that serves as a bathroom. He ducks under the doorway, and the ceiling's so low he can't completely straighten his back again while he's in there. After years and years, he's still not sure how Fran tolerates it.

There's a shower of some sort—a great glass box at the very least, and a grate in the ceiling above which lets magicked water fall through. It falls in heavy splatters, too thick to be considered relaxing, and it never does run warm enough. No matter how bloody the battle or sticky the engine grease, he never can bring himself to spend more than twenty minuets in there. Sighing dramatically, Balthier throws off the underwear he wore for his early morning stroll and dives into the _Strahl_'s makeshift waterfall.

He has to grit his teeth when the water first hits him, and makes a mental note to visit the public baths of whatever town next crosses their path—they're even running low on soap. There's always been something about showers that have inspired him to sing, but it's more of a passing fancy than a deeply rooted urge; and anyone within in earshot ought be glad he chooses to bite his tongue.

Out of the shower by half-six; it's the way of the free world. Drying off, he wraps a towel around his waist and throws another across his shoulder, uses his toes to push open the bathroom-bedroom (naming them thus makes them sound so much than they really are) adjoining doors, and puts his palms flat against the basin's edge as he stares into the mirror.

In the mirror, he can see the whole of his bed (the whole of his room, really, because there's not much to it), and slowly Fran is stirring. Strange, really, because she's usually so much more professional about this 'waking up' business than him, and she only catches his eye in the mirror for half a second before choosing to take refuge amongst the duvet again. Balthier flicks on the tap (and it runs on the same water as the shower, ends up down the same drain) and reaches blindly for a toothbrush. From the way Fran's tossing and turning—he can't help but smirk a little—he'd say it's the result of too much wine last night; the taste is still persistent in the back of his mouth, even if he never drinks half as much as she does. He, after all, hasn't had fifty years to run around Ivalice and appreciate the flavours of the world.

Balthier devises a plan in his head: if they're ready by eight then they can begin the hunt by nine-thirty, and judging by the difficulty of the bill, or the way its petitioner clearly had no idea when it came to negotiations, Balthier can't imagine it'll take more than two hours. By the time he's spat into the sink and wiped his mouth on the towel around his neck, Fran's already disappeared from the mirror. 

Both cleaner and more cheered, Balthier retraces his footsteps from the morning's walk, and as ever winds up in the kitchen. Well—it's as much of a kitchen as the shower is a luxury. In reality it's just a cornered off section of the engine room, where there was enough energy going spare to power a tiny cooker. The table in the middle of the room is so small one plate barely fits on it, and all of the cupboards used to house screwdrivers and the like.

Three empty wine bottles are placed at the centre of the table as a painful reminder, and all things considered, Balthier doesn't feel _that_ bad; though he could certainly go for an unusually large breakfast. Fran looks at him once, glances at the bottles, and her expression is so sour he has to laugh. She's got one of his shirts wrapped around herself, and no matter how much taller she is, the fabric always hangs loosely around her. It's not a bad look—but it's far too early in the day to say so.

It's a quarter to seven by the time he's boiled the cheap tin kettle (another thing, along with soap, to replace) and made tea. Offering it to Fran with a wide grin only earns him a scowl; the next time Fran glances up he's holding a small phial of painkiller, mixed with a pinch of smelling sorts.

She downs it in one swift motion, blinks hard as if it's not making her eyes water. A few minutes later and she's perfectly composed again, the fact that her hair is still tangled notwithstanding, and begins to talk about the day's work while she waits for her breakfast. Her skill with the oven rivals Balthier's singing talents, and he stands with his back to her, flipping toast in egg with one hand and drying his hair with the other.

Fran's more willing to accept the tea with a decent meal, it seems. Balthier eats standing by the oven—the empty wine bottles are going to have to take permanent residence on the table, because there's far too much clutter on the worktop. Thanking him for the breakfast in that way of hers that never actually involves saying it out loud, just the ghost of a smile, Fran rises from her seat and makes her way towards the bathroom.

Halfway out of the door, Balthier grins and tells her he'll be needing his shirt back. Fran scowls in a warmer way than before, rolls her eyes, and shrugs the raiment off before throwing it at him. Balthier catches it and tilts his head as she walks away. The best days start like this. 

---

It's always peculiarly quiet after breakfast. All the excitement of waking is gone, and Fran takes at least a good half-hour to wring her hair dry. Nono doesn't usually get up until something notable happens, usually involving a decent amount of explosions, so there's no company for Balthier to find there; which is why he always gets dressed at his leisure. First things first, he picks up yesterday's clothes. His shoes really do end up in the strangest places. Putting them to the side until it's practical to clean them, he pulls open the storage space under his bed and fishes out some clean clothes. Ah, they're running low on those as well.

Really, he's beginning to wonder how he and Fran ever managed when they had to ferry the others around—he's of the strong opinion that such a cramped living arrangement only works with her because they know how to seamlessly work around each other, and yet a year and a half ago there were six of them trying to cram into the shower of a morning, trying to get into the kitchen before the stove became too cool to do anything with. He laughs to himself, but makes a resolve at the same time: never again. Vaan—or should that be _Captain_ Vaan?—can bloody well pilot his own ship now, anyway.

Half-seven. Rings, bracelets—both made of colourful, cheap plastics. The earrings he wears are a little more expensive, because they're a little more difficult to lose in the heat of battle. Fran's already bundled her armour up and taken it back to her own room, and so Balthier finds an old book to leaf through—_Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh_, it begins, but it is far too early for him to translate the ancient Archadian tongue—while he waits for his lady.

---

Balthier says good morning to her all over again as she enters the cockpit, refreshed and hardened from the shower, looking like the Fran he knows during the day. If there's any trace of a hangover left she hides it well, sits with her back straight in the pilot's seat next to his and begins plotting a route without having to ask their destination. 

He leans over as he takes a hold of the controls, coaxes the airship into life as he tries to work out just where she's taking them. There's a sudden rumble all around them as the _Strahl_ finally wakes up, and within seconds they're free of any earthly restraints.

The sky is still dim as they fly, white clouds standing out all the more against a grey-blue-black backdrop; and that's why Balthier loves flying so early, when the sun is not yet halfway up its ladder. Even though the sky is clear enough to navigate and birds are already well into their flight paths, there's an odd sort of silence pressing with a thousand fingers against the cold metal plating of the _Strahl_. They talk about nothing for a while—most of what's said he responds to automatically, as if his eyes and mind alike are too preoccupied for words of any meaning. They talk about Rozarria and the goal—a quick-footed Behemoth, loose at the foot of a mountain—and it is still too early for any clever comments from Balthier, regarding the events of the night before.

"You are not listening to me," Fran says, but she is amused, if anything.

"Fran, dear, of course I am; I just couldn't possibly choose between you, the _Strahl_, the sky and the wind, and no Hume can make sense of all four at once, no matter how he tries."

"I have no such problem."

"I have no such ears."

She laughs briefly under her breath, and keeps her eyes on the sky to avoid smiling more than necessary. Still, it's hard to keep a neutral expression while being stared at, and so she pays him a quick glance; and this, he thinks, leaning back into his chair, is the most wicked thing she could have done.

---

They have six minutes to spare, if they're following Balthier's plan (which, he reminds himself, currently only exists in his head), and touch down at a tiny aerodrome in a dusty Rozarrian village at nine twenty-four. He congratulates himself, and by now Fran has learnt not to confuse or concern herself with such trifling matters. She could live for another two hundred years in this world, and yet this particular Hume would still not make sense to her.

(Then again, she supposes as the _Strahl_'s suspension hisses, there'd be no fun for it otherwise.)

Nono, who Balthier almost trips over as he exits the cockpit, tells them about the town—Fran doesn't catch the name, not that it matters—a poor place, covered in ash from an eruption years ago. It was the head of the village's son who traveled all the way to Dalmasca, to post a bill where hunters of some worth might actually see it. Balthier stretches his legs in the corridor. He's killed Behemoths before. Fran does not dare be so presumptuous, even if she isn't particularly worried.

There's a room at the far end of the main walkway where Vaan once slept—Balthier swears there's still sand and the scent of bazaar spices lingering—that's now used as an armory. They have quite a collection, as any pirate ought; there's a whole wall reserved for bows (again, not that the room is particularly _big_ in the first place).

Balthier eyes the weapons as he laces his doublet up at the back. His first reaction is to go for a sword and shield—Behemoths might be fairly susceptible to strong upper-cuts, but they still pack a powerful punch—but Fran beats him to it. Instead he opts for a spear, light on his feet, hoping speed will make up for sacrificed defense. She offers him the shield, and shaking his head, he puts her at ease by strapping the Fomahault to his back.

There's already a small crowd gathered by the time they hop overboard and leave Nono to do whatever it is he does so well. Fran looks around, unimpressed; the aerodrome looks worse from the ground than it did from the sky. There are no walls, just upturned crates, and the ground is hard, dried earth. She raises an eyebrow. The aerodrome owner—a farmer, Balthier is not surprises to learn—promises he'll take good care of their ship rubbing his grubby hands together all the while. As they walk away, Balthier murmurs under his breath that _next time_ they're going to rob the first cargo ship they come across, no matter who it belongs to; consequences be dammed. Fran solemnly agrees, even if by some wild luck (or royal intervention), Dalmascan patrol ships have been ignoring them, for the most part. 

A few children follow them, and Balthier supposes it's not often hunters-slash-pirates turn up in nowhere Rozarrian villages, especially when one of them happens to be a Viera. They don't need directions—the volcano is easy enough to spot, even if the sun lurks behind it—but Balthier humours them, turns to the children who thought they were being so _sneaky_ and asks them to lead the way while it's still safe.

_Next time,_ Fran mutters, they bring the Vespa.

---

Rozarria is a hot, dry, place, and the climate is only made worse when the wind picks up volcanic ash and flings it their way. It gets in Balthier's eyes, to which he complains about to no end—he's wearing a _new_ shirt as well—and stains Fran's hair an earthy red-and-white. He grimaces at her through the dust.

"I'm glad you're not like one of those foolish Viera who feel the need to dye their hair and fit in with Hume society," he shouts over the wind. When she questions him, genuinely curious, he simply says, "You look beautiful they way you (he pauses, here, to spit out some ash) are. I'm quite taken by your hair—well; you, really—I admit. (Again, he spits.) I play with it while you sleep, sometimes. I doubt I could stand it on myself, though."

Fran is about to reply to him—with what she knows not—when there is a low rumble from above, and suddenly it is not just ash, but great shards of rock falling down upon them. Neither of them say it, but already the beast sounds more formidable than the poor, shaking partitioner had made him out to be. (Oh, he claimed he was a beast alright—just a _little_ too strong for a village of farmers and their children to risk fighting). Balthier grins and Fran quickens the pace; all the more challenging, then.

From the position of the sun, and with it distorted by clouds, Fran can only fathom a guess at the time. She supposes they have been wandering for around half an hour, and have not covered all that much land—of course, what they're doing is more _climbing_ than anything, and Viera were certainly not designed for such a task. It's only the feeling of a thick mist surging that keeps her going up, up, and the sun has barely moved another degree in the sky before she very slowly draws the sword from it sheath.

Warned by the sound of metal singing, Balthier grips the spear _properly_—until now he'd been resting it over one shoulder—and falls into stance. This is where things get interesting. Fran is walking with her knees bent, low to the ground; being a few foot ahead of him, she can see over the jagged rocks he cannot, and so he looks elsewhere—not for the Behemoth—for the time being. The Behemoth's chosen a plateau as the battleground, and it's at least nine meters wide. Enough to run around a little, at least. And, as far as Balthier's concerned, a little is more than enough.

Fran strikes first. He sees her run into the ash, hears the Behemoth howl out in pain. Just as soon as he's close enough to see clearly, the Behemoth, red and fiery from the volcano rock, retaliates—Fran guards with her shield, but the impact makes her stumble back a few feet. Suddenly, Balthier's regretting not taking up her offer of a shield. No matter; the leading man, and all that. His grip tightens around the spear, and suddenly the pads of his fingers are clammy.

With a swift, showy movement he lunges forward, landing hard on one bent knee. There's a hissing noise, not from the fell beast's throat, but from the puncture at its side; blood is rushing from the wound that he cannot tug his spear free from. The Behemoth does not allow Balthier the luxury of a grin, and thrashes out with its claws and horns and teeth, not caring what it strikes, almost as if some Rage has overcome it.

There is time enough to relinquish his hold of the spear and throw a Barrier around Fran and himself. She thanks him in the form of Holy, and he quickly follows in suit with a coarse Firaga spell (Holy has never suited him, and is reserved for Fran alone; she has always fought like a goddess on the battlefield, anyway). The beast moans horribly, and Fran does not twitch. With the sound reverberated off the rocks so, he rather fancies the village folk must fear another eruption is immanent. The beast moans horribly, twisting on the spear lodged beneath its ribs.

Fran does the honours. She digs her sword in at a more efficient angle, under the ribs, up and up, until the Behemoth is no longer howling. Balthier's still for a very long moment, just in case the beast leaps back up, and Fran too has her shield raised. When he finally tugs his spear out, it's much more than sweat making the length of it sticky—he grimaces mildly before kneeling at the head. If they don't get to work quickly the whole of it will rot away, and they need _some_ proof, some plunder, to receive their prize.

Fran uses her sword to hack out the thick, twisted horn. It's been coated red by the elements, and when he finally draws breath enough to glance at Fran, the same has happened with her hair. It's not like blood—oh, he's seen blood—but something altogether less tangible, like, perhaps, what's left of a sunset when the greedy hills swallow their star.

Messy and disheveled, with a ugly horn in one hand and blood splattered against her skin, he thinks her gorgeous, in this light (in all lights). He smiles, she stiffens, holds the horn out to him like it's an offering, as if to break the air between them.

"I do wonder, sometimes, Fran, why you and I insist on showering in the early mornings when we know well enough by now what a day's work consists of," he says with a faint sigh, dusting down his sleeves, not daring to clean his face yet, lest he ruin another shirt. And then, before she can reply with some witty comeback regarding the trappings of his vanity, he asks, "Will you not accompany me back to the village?"

She shakes her head, and Balthier watches as dirt clouds from her hair. She turns, tilts her head just a little; she would be staring deep into the heart of the volcano, if her eyes were not shut. "This place reminds me of..."

From the way she trails off, from the faint but gut-wrenchingly sad smile on her face, Balthier knows she does not mean to continue. And so, for a moment he lets her stare.

"Of Mydia," he concludes when the quiet between them becomes dangerous. (There are still somethings regarding Mydia and Velis they are still too scared to discuss, namely: what becomes of a Viera when the Hume—as he is fated to—dies? Are they destined to go mad? Balthier shakes his head. The leading man, and all that.)

Reaching out, he takes the horn, but not before brushing his fingers against her cheek. She does not flinch, and he takes this to be a good sign; all the smugness of his smile is gone.

---

It is already in the latter part of the hour when he reaches the foot of the volcano. A small crowd has gathered—children and their mothers, mostly, and a few farmers who've stopped on their way between fields—and they cheer, at first, and then whisper amongst themselves. The pirate had a partner, didn't he? The Hume was with a Viera, wasn't he? Balthier brushes their questions off, holds the horn above his head with one hand. Well, if Fran doesn't want to share in the glory...

They take him back to the village leader, an old man with a toothless smile, who pays him in the partitioner's place. Balthier reevaluates his first impression of the village; there's at least twice as much gil as they'd been expecting, and his suspicious rise when several of the serving women bring in sack's of the fertile mountain's crop for him. With that same, nervous black smile, the village leader offers him some wine and asks that Balthier ferry his son back next time he crosses the border—after all, it would be dangerous for him to stow away for a second time. It seems, somehow, the partitioner had been intending on reaching the heart of Rozarria, not Dalmasca, but found himself in the wrong cargo bay.

Balthier agrees, on the condition that he's given directions to the village baths.

Standing outside, hand on his hip, Balthier stares up at the hot-springs entrance (two doors, male and female, respectively) and faintly considers finding Fran, whatever mountain she has wandered up. Then again, the last time they had both tried to wander into the _same_ part of a spring, the evening had ended with Balthier receiving a black-eye.

The children and villagers have stopped following him by now. It's probably because he's slowly blending in, probably because of all the dirt on his face. With that thought in mind, he makes his way into the springs, checks Fomalhaut in at the main desk, and with a smile wonders how to spend all his money.

---

Fran's in the walkway when he gets back, heading towards the cockpit, and it's as good an excuse as any to greet him. For once her hair's down, still wet and loose, clinging to her skin, and the better part of her armour's been discarded. Balthier looks at her for a long moment, red-faced from the hot springs, and gestures to the brown bags under his arms with a nudge of his head.

"You'll be pleased to know, I went shopping," he announces as if she herself had complained about the lack of soap, "And bought only the necessities, of course."

There's a magazine poking out of the top of the bag under his right arm, and even rolled up she can still tell it's one of those illustrated monthlies he hasn't grown out of buying yet. Balthier swears he reads them for the airship designs, and nothing more. Fran raises an eyebrow.

"I believe you have my money."

She does like to cut to the chase. Placing the bags on the floor—there's an odd tinny noise from one of them, and Fran isn't sure she wants to know _what_ it is—Balthier reaches for the pouch hanging from his hip and pulls out what's left of the gil. Fran catches it, feels no urge to count the contents right away. As she's about to turn away, Balthier raises a finger to stop her in her tracks and swoops down to one of the shopping bags.

"I also bought you flowers, 'gainst my better judgment. Squandering gil, and all." He shrugs with all the eloquence and charm of a pirate.

Fran takes them with quiet grace, and leafs through the petals the same way Balthier would a book. He does this, every so often, and there's never any rhyme or reason behind it, no real meaning behind the gesture. He does not do it as means of an apology or a cheap way to get her into bed, but simply when the mood takes him. Give her two hundred years, and perhaps she'll understand it.

Walking away, he natters on. "I was thinking we could take a trip back to Dalmasca. No real reason, other than to perhaps pay a visit to our pirates-in-training. Oh, we could even stay overnight in the Sandsea—possibly a good idea if you plan to get in the same state as you did last night, my dear. It would be nice to sleep in a bed big enough to save me the worry of rolling onto your nails in the middle of the night..."

She stops him dead in his tracks, and no matter how often it happens he never quite expects it. In the next moment she has her fingers knotted with his, and she's leaning down to kiss him—there's no real reason behind it. The mood's just taken her, and Balthier doesn't object when he's backed up against the engine room door.

---

Balthier opens the book again, absentmindedly guiding the _Strahl_ through clear skies with one hand. The cockpit is full of noise, but nothing so irregular that it disrupts him; Nono is working one of the control ports—obviously not something so important it can't be ripped open during flight—and the _Strahl_ is humming pleasantly, her belly filled at the sorry excuse for a Rozarrian aerodrome.

He furrows his brow. "_In allen Wipfeln spürest du kaum einen Hauch,_" Balthier mutters slowly, trying to taste each word so that the meaning might flood back to him. It's been years since he last picked up this book, years since he came across anything in Old Archadian; his mind feels rusted. Ah!—_Hauch._ Breath, of course.

"Kupo?" Nono puts his spanner down for a moment and turns his attention to Balthier.

"My favourite book." Balthier taps the spine. "Unfortunately, it's been some years since I studied the language, so the prologue is getting the better of me."

Frowning, Nono jumps from the dashboard into Fran's empty seat. "Is it all written like that?" Moogles don't like it when confronted with something they can't take apart and put back together in a way that makes sense, and language is no different.

"Not so."

Relaxing visibly, Nono rummages around his front pocket and pulls out a loose bit of wire. "Oh. What's it about, kupo?"

Balthier smiles inwardly. Now there's a question and a half—it's one scholars have been arguing over for years: is it the story of a god-given gift, or is the truth more brutal? It could just as easily be seen as a curse. Still, it was written eons ago, long before the Galtean Alliance, or any of that troublesome business, so who is he to judge?

"'tis the epic tale of a man who decided he wasn't going to die."

"Ku-kupo?"

"More than that, actually. He claimed it was an impossibility, and refused to accept it. Every time Death chased him "betwixt sea and sail, o'er hills that roll like the clashing of white waves," Death left empty handed, and our hero does not look a day older."

Peering over to the spine of the book, Nono reads the title in embossed, gold letters. He doesn't need to be versed in Old Archadian to see right through Balthier. Nono grins, in that smug little way Moogles do that shows a whole row of teeth—_Balthier das Unsterbliche_.

"That's your plan, is it?" he asks.

Balthier shrugs off the question and opens the book once more. He hasn't explained the ending to Nono yet, when Good Balthier, the last breathing creature on the planet, could walk no further, and only found peace beneath the sky. "It's worked well enough thus far," he says, losing himself in the pages, "_Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde..._"

---

"I have some private endeavors to attend to," Balthier says casually once they dock in their usual space at the aerodrome, then pay the attendant to keep quiet about their arrival.

All things considered, Fran's not surprised. It's unlike Balthier to return to a place too quickly, and it's scarce been six hours since they were last in Rabanastre. He keeps shifting from foot to foot, too, and he only ever acts like that when he's up to something she can't know about. Fran nods—there's not much else she can do, really, and judging by the way he's acting, he's not going to attempt anything _too_ dangerous. Walking away, she tells him they will meet up in, perhaps, four or five hours.

A second later and he's lost in the crowd. Fran considers where to go—she hadn't intended on returning to Rabanastre so very quickly, and as such had spent the better part of the previous day scouring through the weapon shops. Not that after traveling to the edges of Ivalice with the Princess left many weapons they _didn't_ possess, but recently new sources of Mythril had been uncovered, and with enough skill and a couple hours worth of haggling, it wasn't altogether impossible to obtain something worthwhile. For a moment, Fran considers visiting Ashe—she hasn't seen the young Queen since they fought together on the Lemurés—but the thought vanishes as quickly as it materialised; thought they once saved Ivalice together, they are now words apart, separated by sky and palace walls.

Leaving the shops behind her, Fran makes her way to Lowtown. In the year and a half of delicate peace Ivalice has experienced, the place truly has changed. Of course, there's no natural light and a heavy stone ceiling still lingers above their heads, but there are no longer any gates at the entrances to trap people, and the houses have been rebuilt and improved; they now have doors which actually lock. Above her head, the rock has been painted a bright blue. It's far too cheerful to be a _real_ sky, but scores of airships that have been painted on (the _Strahl_ has earnt pride of place, escaping from _Bahamut_'s claws) are a sure sign that Dalmasca is moving on; that the war is behind them.

Vaan, Penelo and some of the other orphans still live down here, even if the Queen did offer them accommodation above ground. Fran raps against the door with her knuckles and stands back for a moment. There are signs of life from the inside—she hears a great clutter, as if of someone tripping over something, and then a scramble to unbolt the door. When the door finally does swing to, neither Vaan nor Penelo stand before her; it's Kytes with a ridiculously wide grin spread across his face.

"Fran!" he greets her excitedly, and then goes on to explain that both Vaan and Penelo are off on what will probably end up being another wild chocobo chase. The boy's face is covered in engine grease, and every few minutes he punctuates his sentences by wiping a baggy sleeve across the bridge of his nose.

Behind him, two Raidens are floating. The Espers always make her somewhat uncomfortable; for one thing, even though they don't use physical voices to speak, they still have mouths, and Fran finds herself troubled by the idea of them eating. One curious Raiden, with its lips closed tight, comes forwards and tilts its head, but does not make any expression other than that. Kytes tries to shoo it away, and ends up with his sleeves tangled; the other Raiden laughs, and the noise echoes inside Fran's head.

"So, umm," Kytes continues, "I guess you just came for Vaan and Penelo..."

Fran nods sharply, and tells him she'll be off. A little disheartened he says goodbye, and a Raiden waves blankly at her. Where to next? She could always visit the bazaar, because the goods are constantly changing, and she can always find _something_ worth buying. But then again, it always is so tricky trying to rummage her way through the junk and avoid the iffy merchants...

"You may accompany me, if you wish," she says to Kytes over her shoulder. Nodding frantically, he almost trips over his own feet as he runs to grab his mage staff (fates know why he still carries it) and follows her through Lowtown.

One of the Raiden follows them, and Kytes apologises on its behalf—these lesser-Espers just have the habit of following him, and some days there's not much he can do to be rid of them. Fran quickly learns to ignore them, and Kytes natters on about this and that, asking her how Basch and Larsa are doing, if she's seen them lately, that is—and he's a bit more cautious about asking after Balthier. He's always been weary of the older pirate, not matter how many times Vaan's told him they can trust Balthier, completely.

When they do get to the bazaar—Fran finds she is grateful for the company, in an odd sort of way—Kytes pulls out a fist-full of gil, smiles sweetly and offers to buy her something. It's the first time in his life he's ever had money, let alone enough to buy more than food with; it would seem, with Vaan and Penelo as his elders, he's been doing a bit of pirating on the side. Ten isn't a bad age to start, Fran supposes. Before Fran can reply to him—and he _does_ make her smile, eyes as bright as the shiny coins in his palm—realisation strikes, and he murmurs that Balthier's probably already bough her something, something better than he could have picked out, and shoves the money back into his pocket.

However, an hour later when they find a stall stocked with elixirs, she lets Kytes haggle for her, and they spend the rest of the afternoon wandering aimlessly amongst the sweet smelling spices under the free Dalmascan sun.

---

By four o'clock she's back in the _Strahl_, setting down the shopping bags by the foot of her bed. Her cabin's opposite Balthier's, and is even smaller than his; there's barely enough room to rest her armour against the wall which, of course, is why the bed's rarely used. Balthier's left something of his in here—a couple of books and a comic that he had no where else to store—and with a yawn, she drops them to the floor and lays back against the mattress.

The bed is stiff, and she tosses and turns for some minutes before getting comfortable. It's not so much the fighting that's exhausted her as the fact that she never does sleep properly after a night of drinking—it feels more like she's been magicked to Sleep, rather than drifted off naturally.

She has the strangest dream in the bed that's now become unfamiliar, but it disappears as quickly as she can blink upon waking. Rolling over and sitting up, she tries her best not to jump a little when she realises Balthier's standing over her.

"Didn't think to look for you here," he says, taking one of her hands and helping her to her feet, "I saw that Kytes around town. Always with the bloody Espers, isn't he."

Fran nods vaguely, and shakes the last trace of sleep from her system. Balthier folds his arms and tilts his head so he's staring thoughtfully at the ceiling above.

"Still, it could be worse, I suppose. At least he's not parading the streets with Shiva by his side."

Fran laughs through a grimace at the thought, and Balthier rubs his arms as if he's suddenly freezing. They have come far, since then, she thinks with a waking smile—and like that, she is back in the right state of mind again. As they leave the room, upon asking him the time, Balthier simply laughs and tells her 'tis already eventide, and that the clock has struck six.

---

They reach a lively looking bar on the outskirts of town after locking up the _Strahl_ once more. Balthier's already booked a room for the night at the Sandsea, but change never hurts; and this places is certainly new, with its brightly painted signs and menus on chalkboards. Above the door, a wooden plaque has the words _The Bahamut's Fall_ for all the town to read. However, just as soon as Balthier's about to step through the double doors, Fran catches him by the collar.

"Look," she says bluntly, pointing to a poster pinned to a noticeboard outside. Balthier lets out a laugh—a happy, surprised but not entirely _settling_ noise—and raises his thumbs and first fingers to frame it in a mocking sort of way.

"I think they captured my likeness quite well, though I'd be loath to think my hair quite so drastic," he muses out loud, "You even get an honourary mention, Fran." He taps at the second line of print (_AND HIS VIERA PARTNER_) before turning his back on the bar, declaring it to be a dreadful place. They may be pirates, but they still have a rough idea of what loyalty means; and it just so happens that most of these concepts revolve around the Sandsea. It wouldn't do any good to let Tomaj down. It takes less time than it once would have to get through the city; there is no longer the needed to duck and weave through the crowds so best as to avoid Imperial Soldiers.

"I do not believe you have paid me all I am owed," Fran says as they make their way through Rabanastre's cozy back alleys and cobbled streets. Winter is fast approaching, for although it has scare turned half-six, there are already magicked street lamps clearing the on-coming night for them.

Balthier, chuckling to himself, turns to her and continues to walk backwards. "Mayhap. Although I'm sure I need not remind you of the time you volunteered to collect our pay and kept the entirety of it to yourself."

Fran continues to stare straight ahead, and speeds up. After a few seconds spent grinning, Balthier catches his heel on a loose stone and stumbles backward. Once he has regained his balance he has to jog to catch up with her. Flicking her hair over her shoulder, she sneers, "Pirate."

"Just because I would give you anything you desire does not mean to say I am above stealing from you."

Allowing him to fall into step next to her, Fran supposes there is little harm in it; after all, they only split the gil out of habit, these days. She is quite sure she could pick through his pockets, pluck out as much gil as she could carry and buy herself a new bow and he would not so much as raise an eyebrow, providing she did not object to him occasionally misjudging the exact meaning of fifty-fifty. After all, 'tis nothing more than gil. She could always steal some more. 

Once they finally reach the Sandsea—Fran enjoys the leisurely pace they walk at, enjoys the feeling of not _having_ to be anywhere, ever—a young Dalmasca, most like only old enough to drink in that past-month, raises both eyebrows and looks at them with a slightly stunned expression. Fran catches him hiss "...thier!" to the boy next to him, and Balthier gives him a wave and a nod of his head. He's always loved attention. The boy looks as if he's about to stand up and blurt out _something_ (loudly too, if the five empty beer bottles are anything to go by) when an older patron pats him on the shoulder, and tells him to "Calm down, son," and the boy is left looking more stunned than before. No one else questions the pirates; as far as they're concerned, if they're treated like guests by Tomaj, then that's good enough for them. Besides, they're wanted pirates for a reason, and far be it from city-folk to get in over their heads for a few measly gil. There are even rumours that they've bested _Espers_, something most people didn't believe in until a half-year ago. And then there are those whispers amongst the market that the both of them actually helped Queen Ashelia out...

Balthier takes a seat at a free table, and asks Fran if she's ready for dinner. When she declines, he says that's probably for the best—after running into Filo in town, the girl insisted he try a coeurl wrap. It wasn't entirely bad—if not a little too spicy—but he could not stop thinking about _what_ he was eating. Instead, to pass the time that scarce needs filling with distractions, they pull over a chess board from the corner of the room. Fran always takes the white pieces, and Balthier's have to be lined up _perfectly_. Not only because he has been playing the game since he was a boy and has a natural knack for it, Balthier enjoys playing it because it's one of the few things he's ever had to teach Fran. Saying that, she's just as deadly on a checkered battlefield as she is half-way up a mountain, and Balthier fears that her mind may be somewhat sharper than his. The number of victories he holds over her are slowly dwindling.

Turning in his chair, Balthier calls the barman and orders a bottle of mahdu—imported directly from Bhujerba, and it tastes as good as anything he drank at the manse of the Marquis himself—and a bottle of tonic to mix with it. By the time the drinks have been brought over on a tray, Fran's already taken two of his pawns and he's debating on whether he should attempt to capture a castle.

---

When the bells toll faintly seven times in the distance, far beyond the open windows, Balthier has reached that agreeable state whereby he is certainly not drunk, but there is enough alcohol running through him for him to be able to really _feel_ it, in his legs, especially. Fran drinks in quiet moderation, lest Balthier make anymore base jabs about the wine incident, and the game is already over: three of her pawns had become Queens and journeyed back as defense before Balthier's one remaining Knight slaughtered her King with the satisfying _thud_ of playing pieces falling against a marble board.

"Can you imagine," Balthier continues, tongue loosened by the drink, "If we were to be working from morning 'till noon; and our lives were spent in some ghastly laboratory forever writing notes, or in an office doing some accursed Emperor's paper work for him?"

Fran says nothing, and she says it affectionately, before reaching over to pull out the food menu from beneath the tonic. Balthier always talks so much more freely about the past, or what could have become of Ffamran's life, after a drink, and happily he only ever seems amused by the concepts he can create. Were he to talk darkly about the past, Fran does not think herself strong enough to tolerate it—Archades, bathed in abysmal tones and harshly carved words does not sound so very different to the Wood.

"Of course, I doubt the Viera have much need for filing or signing off documents. Tell me: if not a sky pirate, what path would you have chosen?"

For her part, though, Fran doesn't find it as easy to talk about the Ivalice inside the Wood, least of all when she is sick to her stomach on liqueur.

"I know not," she says mildly. "But were I not a sky pirate, I would be enjoying a meal, and not listening to some fool Hume blithe on about things that never stood a chance of coming to be."

Raising his glass with a far-off smile, Balthier closes his lips tightly and the questions retreat. Nevertheless, there's something curious in his eyes, cat like, and though she locks her eyes on the menu, she is too aware of his staring to actually _read_ any of the fine black print. Pirate's have silver tongues; and with Balthier, he need not even make a noise to coax the truth out. When the weight of his stare has her so agitated that the pounding in her head is worse than that of any hangover—a red, angry sort of throbbing around the temples—and the distraction is persistent, Fran closes the menu, places it flat against the table and turns her eyes to the window. Balthier continues to smile—and honestly, there is little more infuriating than a Hume who intends to get what he wants.

"A Wood Warder, perhaps," Fran says, and she is talking to the night sky—or at least the buildings of Rabanastre whose silhouettes grow from the windowpane, "Had I stayed. I could never be restrained and learn as Jote did before me."

When Fran turns back to their table, Balthier has the menu folded out in one hand like it's a holy scripture. The rushing of blood in her temples only ceases once she's realised he's pretended not to listen, and the next time he raises his voice is to wrestle with the issue of how ethically sound it is to eat something with chocobo in when they hatched one but three days ago. After several minutes of contemplation the only solution seems to be another drink, and Balthier decides to leave his dilemma until the waiter comes to serve them—that is, until he eyes a pasta dish made with Rogue Tomato.

Ever since their little treasure hunt in the Lemurés and somewhat befriending Tomaj—despite Balthier's tendency to refer to him as 'Lomaj', because it _sounds more Dalmascan_—the service had improved considerably. Once they have ordered, the menu is collected and the empty Madhu replaced without them even needing to ask. Glancing around in that way that meant he was either going to suggest robbing someone in the room or tell her they were approximately thirty seconds away from a head-hunter spotting them, Balthier suddenly leans forward, hands clasped together between his knees and shoulders so low they almost touched the table edge. He looks up at her as he is wont to, and says, "You made the right decision, you know."

And for a moment—fleeting, but real—his voice is not thick with silver, and his tongue is not preoccupied with the hunt for clever words. Smirking, as if to end the moment premature and thus not ruin it, he adds, "For dinner, that is. Excellent choice."

---

A disadvantage of getting up at six means that it always feels later than it really is, come evening. Most of the patrons are in an acceptable state, if not still sober, drinking in moderation, and unwinding from a day's work. A great number of the regulars have yet to arrive, and most of the excitement revolves around a group of Seeqs playing with dice in the far corner. Balthier cannot help but feel as if the night has less than an hour left to it, after dinner is seen to—his stomach is full, he feels warm, at least in part because of his decision to lay off the chocobo wings. Stretching out his legs, he complains that he's getting too old too early, and loathes the thought of having to wear glasses.

And so they drink, drink like they have for the past five years, never with the same backdrop two nights in a row; and some nights it is too much, some nights to little, and oftentimes nothing more than fruit flavoured water. But they are drinking and quipping, and next to pirating and flying, it is the most natural thing in the world. What they talk about isn't important. Balthier casually points out that he's going to be taking the airship in the early morning, and Fran takes this as hint enough and says she plans on staying in Rabanastre to wait for Penelo and Vaan. They are talking, and that hour has been stretched out and beaten, until Balthier looks up and the clock above the bar and it has already passed ten and he is wonderfully drunk.

Finishing the last of his drink and a friendly verbal sparring match with a loud-mouthed Baanga half-way across the tavern, Balthier stands up, slams the glass down a _little_ too hard and announces that he's going to bed. Fran watches with one eyebrow raised as he breathes in deeply and gathers his wits, and then he is standing rather rigid as if waiting for something. Without a word, Fran rises to her feet and does not take his arm when he offers it.

"You did not think to ask me," she says, and perhaps does not mean to actually _speak_ the words.

They pass the bar and do not pay. She is quite sure the debt they owe the Sandsea is greater than the price placed on their heads, and quickens her pace as Balthier guides her to the door beneath the balcony, leading to the accommodation upstairs. He apologises enthusiastically—he knows how Fran loves stargazing, but he lacks both the concentration and balance for such a daunting task tonight.

"After so many years I rather thought there little point," he finally answers, stabbing the key at the door and never quite hitting the keyhole.

There are no more than ten guest rooms, but Fran supposes the Sandsea _is_ doing well for itself. Penelo once told her how Tomaj would allow her and Vaan to sleep in one of the empty rooms on the rare occasion it became too cold to get by on the streets, and once the Imperials arrived the Senate poured money into a select few inns and taverns to ensure that their soldiers had the best luxury that could be expected from such a place. Of course, since then, the rooms have been redecorated and—Fran reaches over and takes the key from Balthier, unlocks the door with ease—reek less of Archadia design. Ah—they've stayed in this room before. Either that or they all look the same, all have identical blue and white bedsheets over sandalwood beds. 

"You misunderstand," Fran says, and suddenly Balthier is kissing the side of her mouth, his hands on her hips, "I was not complaining. It is nice."

Balthier laughs through the kiss and mutters something about the Viera and their awkward, awkward words, before kissing her one final time and letting go. His eyes are sharp and he takes a step back, as if daring himself to jump; and then he is laying against the bed, arms stretched out and trying to take all of it in. She imagines his head is spinning, partly reinforced by the way he grips the bedsheets as if they'll save him from some vast drunken void. Fran does not have time to register how foolish and peaceful he looks all at once, for Balthier pats the covers when he is quite sure he's safely anchored and she sits on the edge of the bed. Balthier places a hand on her thigh and looks up at her—it is rare that he is so very drunk.

"I'll build a palace, you know. Just to store all of my plunder," he murmurs nonsensically, and begins to complain that the _Strahl_ is far too small to house all the loot they've garnered, "...and raise one hundred chocobos. I wouldn't eat a single one of the things, mind you."

When Fran asks him how he expects to do his business from a _palace_, Balthier claims he didn't think she was ridiculous enough to truly believe his palace wouldn't have wings on it. Reaching down she kisses him once more, and Balthier wraps his arms around her waist to pull her atop him; and he does not need his eyes, barely needs his senses, to unstrap the armour and let her hair down. Even with his eyes closed the room is still spinning, but Fran is rooted firmly above him, her legs clamped either side of his, and suddenly his hands are _everywhere_, as if some part of her will dissolve if he can't just _touch_ her. Everything is moving too fast—her breath is becoming heavy, but he can't tell it apart from his own—and it's still not enough. 

"You need not worry," Balthier says when he has the chance to breath, her lips at his throat. "About whatever it is that troubles you. The leading man never dies, my dear."

Or that's how it sounds in his head—he not sure if he does anything but slur incoherent nothings. Fran bites down against his neck at the words and he moans, and it's almost as if she's starting to believe him, after so many years. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone, and the incessant pounding of his heart is exposed to all the world. 

---

It's half-five when Fran wakes up, and it's out of habit alone because she still feels exhausted. Balthier, laying on his back with the bedsheets twisted around his legs, shows no sign of waking soon. He has his eyes scrunched together tightly as if refusing to see daylight will somehow fight off a hangover. It takes her several minutes to take in her surroundings: they are certainly not in Balthier's cramped cabin, where she could probably touch both opposing walls with the tips of her nails if she stretched enough, and the familiar smell of oil and metal does not linger in the hallway. This place is something of a luxury—two people should never be able to fit into Balthier's bed—but she could not see herself waking here every morning. As she looks blankly at each wall, still stuck halfway between dreams and _truly_ being awake, Fran hears Balthier mumble something about nothing in a surprisingly loud voice before tossing in the bed and throwing an arm over her stomach.

When she tries to sit up, he spreads out his fingertips but stirs no further. Allowing him a minute to readjust she turns to him, studies him from head to toe and tries to work out how the past five years have fallen into place to create _this_ as an end result. When she can find no real answer, Fran realises she's far happier that way, rests her head in the crook of his neck and lets herself dream for a moment longer.

It's six am and Fran is stretching at the foot of the bed, her fingers spread out wide and shoulder blades pushed back. She faces the window as he does it, looks out at the sandy Dalmascan sunrise and listens for signs of life from behind her. After this, everything falls into place.


End file.
